


Not a foolproof suicide

by scribblesandscreeds



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I'm not even sure who the cameos are, but I think one of them is Mary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 09:03:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10659336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblesandscreeds/pseuds/scribblesandscreeds
Summary: Jim Moriarty wants to torture Sherlock. Sherlock would really rather he didn't.Mostly just dialogue.





	Not a foolproof suicide

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even sure where this came from, it just... did. It may, in time, fit into the middle of something else.

“You disappoint me.” Sherlock said, surveying what he could of the implements laid out on the table just within his field of vision. Crude, mostly. Wicked little purveyors of nastiness. Deadly.

“I - _I beg your pardon?”_

“All this time, all these games, and you only wanted me for my body? I thought you were more high-minded than that.” The essence of _I’m not angry, just disappointed_ saturated his voice. Moriarty jabbed a finger at his face.

“Now, that's not fair. You’re twisting my words.”

Sherlock regarded the finger coolly, since he couldn't retreat from it anyway, and took his time re-establishing eye contact with his captor. 

“It’s hard to draw any other conclusion. If you kill me, my body is all you’ll have.”

“You know what? This is what I hate about you. You always find a way to ruin my fun.”

“I don’t think you really hate it. I think it’s what you enjoy the most.”

“Oh. Oh! I see what you're trying to do. You’re trying to manipulate me into sparing your life, without the indignity of begging.”

“I’ll beg, if you want me to beg.” Sherlock would have shrugged his shoulders, but they were very effectively immobilised, so he had to put the shrug into his voice instead.

“It’s not the same if it’s voluntary.” Moriarty groused, but turned away before Sherlock could catch the wistfulness in his eyes. 

“Jim - you once said that we could be friends.” Sherlock followed Moriarty with his eyes as far as he could, as he fiddled with equipment. 

“We still could.” He had his back to him, but Sherlock saw the disbelieving snort anyway. 

“It’s not too late, it’s never too late. Please.” Moriarty stiffened for a fraction of a second, then carried on adjusting whatever it was that he was adjusting. 

“For the sake of all that could have been, for all that could be-” Sherlock allowed himself to stammer a little on the fricatives “-don’t do this. Please.” 

His voice rose a little, cracked a little. Again the word _please_ made the other man twitch. 

Sherlock swallowed loudly. 

“Please, Jim?” He all but sobbed, pathetically. Moriarty abandoned the makeshift work station, rounding on him, no words on his tongue but triumph on his face which he put so close to Sherlock’s - and dear god, were those tears in his eyes? His huge, wet, dark eyes?- that he couldn’t focus on his features at all.

Then Sherlock’s pupils shrank back down, and all the lines on his face flattened out. His voice dropped back down to its normal baritone. He sounded bored.

“See? I can make it completely believable, if you like.”

“You bastard.” Moriarty breathed, hoping, pettily, that his breath was bad.

“Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted to hear?” Sherlock’s face remained bland, impassive. Moriarty pushed himself back, away from the infuriating man. 

“You smug faced, shitting bastard.” Suddenly the idea of torturing him had lost its lustre. What was the point, if he could squeal and beg and sob for mercy at random? “I’ll never know if it’s real.”

“No. Never.” Still bland, but was there - was there a hint of _sympathy_ in there now? “But I’m sure you can convince yourself, if you really try. And with me helping? You and I should be able to convince anyone, of anything. Even you.” 

Moriarty regarded him. His face looked open, honest. Helpful. It was not an expression that looked very much at home on those features. It wasn't what he wanted to see. No, he wanted scheming, intriguing, too clever by half - proper Sherlock. Real Sherlock. This fake sincerity was the worst, because it was the most convincing he’d ever seen. He sighed a short little sigh, barely more than a huff.

“I can’t tell you how much I want that to be true. I don’t need to tell you how much I want that to be true. But it isn’t, and I know it isn’t.”

“Do you? For sure?”

He was still so calm, so maddeningly unbothered. Moriarty swiped up the gun from the table and pointed it at him. He hadn’t unloaded it after confiscating it from the man now secured to the iron girder in front of him.

“Maybe I should just kill you. Get it over with.”

“Maybe. But then what?” Sherlock looked like he would have tilted his head, if it hadn’t been firmly duct taped in place above the eyebrows.

“Then you’d be dead. I’d make it stick, this time.” He spat back.

“And then what?” 

“Jesus, what are you - three years old? ‘But then what? Then what? Then what?’ What do you care, you’d be dead!”

“And you’d be alone.” Sherlock said softly. Moriarty flinched, and made himself laugh.

“There you are. So sure you’re irreplaceable. So sure I won’t actually do it.” He approached him slowly, gun first, until the barrel was pressed to the silver tape above Sherlock’s eyes. He didn’t flinch, or even look up. He kept his eyes locked with Jim Moriarty’s.

“You once told me that we were the same.”

“I remember.” It had been one of the nicer tea parties of his life. He’d even trusted that the tea wasn’t poisoned.

“And that I need you. That I’m nothing without you. Well. If both of those things are true, I think even the Yard could arrive at the obvious conclusion, if you gave them a week or so to think about it.”

“That I need you.” There was barely a hint of inflection in Moriarty’s voice, but it could have been used to sink ships. “My life isn’t worth living without you.”

“So why don’t we share a bullet?” Sherlock said it like it was the most reasonable suggestion in the world. Moriarty giggled, but his face fell straight again.

“What, sort of temple to temple, and hope I get the trajectory right?”

“Not a very foolproof suicide, I’ll grant you.”

“Neither was jumping off a hospital. How did you not die from that?”

“Official Secrets Act. Sorry.”

“Oh. So, your brother.”

“My lips are sealed on the subject of meddlesome Mycroft.” Nonetheless, they twitched into a little smile.

“Not very well sealed, obviously.”

“I made no guarantees as to the quality of the seal. Are you going to shoot me, or what? Come on. Let’s go out with a bang. Together.”

“Are you actually serious? You’re willing to die, if there’s a chance of taking me with you?”

“It has to be a good chance, but yes. I’ve been ready for death for a long time. Call my bluff if you don’t believe me. Hold the gun to my head so it gets me first, if you like. I trust you to get the angle right.”

They shared a genuine smile. Whatever else was true, Jim knew that Sherlock respected him. Loathed, feared, and wanted to eradicate every last trace of, but also, respected him.

Something zipped through the air. Moriarty flinched.

“What-” He looked faintly constipated, then slid bonelessly to the floor, trigger finger twitching but failing to squeeze.

“What-” Sherlock echoed. He still couldn’t move his head, and the presumed assailant was beyond his peripheral vision.

“Do men ever stop talking?” An exasperated voice asked. 

“I fear not, dear heart.” A second one replied.

There was a second zip, a sting in his thigh, then everything went dark.


End file.
